


Ecdysis

by TurtleNovas



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Before epilogue, Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Podfic Available, Post Battle of Starcourt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 19:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleNovas/pseuds/TurtleNovas
Summary: It's a heavy thing to take a life.  Dustin doesn't come out of the act unscathed.





	Ecdysis

The realization of what Dustin's done starts setting in during the hours he and Erica are sitting in the grass on that hill, looking out over Hawkins, and trying not to panic too much as the lights flash in the distance. He's never thought about his capability for violence before, even in the midst of everything that's happened, watching his friends fight, seeing the blood of monsters on their hands. It never occurred to him to contemplate if he could do the same, if he has the grit to commit acts of violence with specific intent not only to hurt, but to kill. It was never a question he felt needed answering, but now, in the wake of this night, it's a question he'll never have to ask. It's an answer that's already made itself known before he could ever consider the need to wonder.

He killed a man today, with specific and unrelenting intent. He charged into a room, deadly weapon in hand, and chose to keep applying force until he was sure life had fled, and he didn't even question it. Well, he didn't question it once Erica had convinced him there was no time to seek help. Steve had been in danger, and Dustin had known there was no room for mercy in the rectifying of that situation. So, he'd taken the deadly weapon offered to him, and he had charged, had aimed specifically for the heart, and had made sure to hold his stance until he saw consciousness drain from the man's eyes, and then a few seconds more, just to be certain.

The body had fallen limp, and he'd been momentarily stunned, unable to comprehend how easy it really was, even looking at the evidence laid out before him. The reverie had cracked like a whip, the sting of the recoil searing over every part of him, bringing him back into the fracas, jarred but determined. And then he had only been able to think of getting to safety, of making sure Steve and Robin didn't hurt themselves in their drugged out state, of helping the rest of the group with their plan, and then finally, of how he wished Steve wouldn't leave, even though he knows it would have gone against so much of what makes Steve beautiful if he had stayed. 

Steve is safe. That much Dustin knows, but only because he'd spent several minutes screaming frantically into the radio until he found a military channel and refused to shut up until they confirmed it for him. Beyond that, he doesn't know what's happened, or who's alive or dead, but his relief is so thorough, he can't help the sick twist in his gut as he realizes that he could stand to lose _anyone else _, so long as Steve was okay.

He collapses further back into the grass, and Erica gives him a look he can't really interpret. She looks like she's ready to start sassing again, just to fill the air, but something in his expression stops her, and she hunkers down next to him and says, "You'd think all those fuckin' helicopters could've come a little sooner."

He huffs out a quiet breath, laughter dancing on the tail of it, and replies, "Yeah.” He turns to her and tries to smile, feels the ache of it in his face like he’s breaking some sort of natural law doing it in this moment. “Don't say 'fuck'. Lucas'll kick my ass if he thinks I taught you that."

She tilts her head and lifts a brow, and he can hear the cheek in her voice before she even starts talking. "He knows I already know." She shrugs. "Besides, what's it to me if he kicks your ass?" But her smile is soft, and he can feel the fondness in it, warm and sarcastic, exactly as he’s come to expect with her. 

"Yeah, alright." He shakes his head, feeling a small unfurling of warmth in return, and turns his gaze back to the lights in the distance, trying not to let himself wonder how anyone else is doing.

He tells himself he'd be sad if any of the party were hurt, and as much as he feels like a liar for insisting it to himself, he’s pretty sure it’s actually true. He'd be hurt, and he'd cry, and he'd mourn them if they were gone. It makes his stomach cramp up and his throat go tight to think about, and he feels good knowing that he at least has that. But when he considers that it could've been Steve, he feels the world pressing in on him like a vise, gravity pulling so hard at his insides that his heart drops straight down into his bowels, and breathing feels like sucking molasses into his lungs. He'd be okay, he realizes, if one of his friends were hurt. If one of them _died. _He'd hurt, but he'd be okay. If it were Steve, though... 

He can't be sure he would have done what he did for anyone else. At least not as thoroughly, or as confidently, or as competently. He presses the heel of his palm into the grass, feels the blades crushing wet against his skin, the dirt digging in until he knows he'll have to use water to get clean again. Losing anyone else, he could survive. If it were Steve, it would end him.

"How long do you think it'll take them to send someone to get us?" he asks, a feeble attempt to distract himself from his current train of thought. He doesn’t want to think about Steve dying, or what he might become (what he has already become) to keep it from happening. He doesn’t want to think about being someone who cares so little for his other friends, or maybe just cares far too much for the one. He swallows hard around the manic terror closing his throat, his heart beating so hard it feels like someone squeezing at his neck where his pulse is hammering. He doesn't turn to look at Erica, hoping that, if only he doesn't meet her eyes, she won't notice the calamitous rush of his thoughts coloring his question.

There's a long pause before she answers, but he can't see her expression, and her tone is normal enough. If she's pretending not to have noticed, he's accepting the charade with gratitude. "Who knows? Probably have to wait for one of our dumbasses to remember we're here and make a fuss." 

He digs his fingers into the dirt and focuses on the grit under his nails just to keep from flying out of his own skin, too much of everything crowding under the surface, making him feel ready to moult and evolve into something terrible, just like the things they have been hunting all this time. As he begins to taste smoke in the air, he wonders if maybe he was always something else, only waiting for an event like this to push him out of the tender, too small skin of humanity. 

His hands are so dirty now, he's not sure they'll ever come clean.

Dustin is tired by the time they finally do come, his muscles sore from constant, unremitting tension, his head aching violently, his vision spidering black at the edges in time with the beat of his heart. He feels like he's been running for hours, throat cut up and raw, his whole body broken under the weight of knowing what they've all been through, and knowing how he feels about it. All he wants to do is curl up in the seat of the military truck and go the fuck to sleep, but instead he shores up every last bit of his energy and bothers the soldiers until they tell him the state of things. 

Hopper is dead. He feels a small sense of grief, on El's behalf mostly, but is too tired to perform anything more, to pretend that the loss will impact his life in any real way aside from witnessing El's pain. Billy is dead, too, and Dustin feels a savage, bright thrill of gratitude flash inside his chest. Max will mourn, he knows, but Dustin can't help thinking that mourning is better than the fear she carried with her every day. He can't help but think her mourning is worth it if he doesn't have to worry about Billy looming near Steve, always floating on the periphery of his life, a constant idle threat waiting to be provoked again into violence. 

Dustin remembers the color of Steve's bruises as they were healing, a chromatic spectrum of agony mapped forever onto the wrinkles of his brain, always there to remind him what Billy had done, long after the wounds left Steve's person. He'd wanted to choke on his own terrifying worry when he'd found Steve tonight, again beaten to vibrancy, split open and swollen, blood so full under his skin that his whole face looked like a raw, shining piece of meat to Dustin's eyes. There had been a moment where all Dustin could do was stare up at him, taking in the sight of his injuries, his sweet, goofy smile, delighted and laughing as he'd rambled, and the weight of what Dustin had done to rescue him began to settle heavy and sharp into Dustin's shoulders. Then the moment had passed, the urgency of it all rushing through him again, and they had been fleeing, too scared and desperate for any emotion outside of the fight or flight spectrum. But still, the image of Steve's broken face is resonant in his mind, and when Dustin thinks about it for too long, he feels a vicious sort of certainty that anyone who could paint such a picture of Steve's soft tissue and bone is probably better off being eradicated from this world, no matter who might mourn the loss (no matter what part of himself he may have killed alongside). 

He tries not to examine the feeling too closely, lets his attention slide away from it before he has to really acknowledge the cruelty blossoming in his belly, nurtured and growing under the light of his love for Steve. There will be time enough to wallow in that knowledge later, when they are all home, safe and healing, the lights, and smoke, and rubble only a memory, ready to fade, even as the smell of burning conglomerate flesh sticks in their noses for days to come. For now, he huddles himself further into his seat and tries not to wince as the truck jostles along, soldiers with guns sitting across from him and Erica, tries to look stone cold and unaffected, even as the weariness of the night starts to settle into his body. Erica, for all her bluster, falls asleep next to him, her head tipping onto his shoulder, and he can't help but feel a sense of protectiveness over her, dragged into all of this at an even younger age than the rest of them had been, but still so fierce in the face of it all, there is nothing to think of her but admiration. 

The ride feels longer than any he's taken before, the seats more uncomfortable, the air stifling hot despite the open windows. When they do finally arrive back at the epicenter of the disaster, it's as if time is a rubber band, pulled slowly back over the course of the trip, only to snap hard and fast into shape again, everything blurring and warping as things begin to truly resolve at jarring speed. It seems as if he only has time to put a hand on Steve's shoulder, to look around and pick out each of his friends where they've scattered in the parking lot, like finding bodies strewn across a battlefield and hoping each will be a living thing, and then suddenly he's being pulled away, back towards the truck, and Steve is only coming along because Dustin's fingers are wrapped so tightly over his wrist, he has no choice. Dustin almost feels bad for the way he stumbles, but then Steve turns his hand up and wraps his fingers just as tightly over the jutting bone of Dustin's wrist, fingers pressed hard into the tender place under the heel of Dustin's palm. Dustin's arm tingles from the pressure on the nerve, but he doesn't try to adjust, only revels in the sensation of Steve being strong enough to hurt him.

Briefly, he considers that his hands are dirty, and it might be worth letting go to avoid sullying Steve’s, but then he's being ushered up into the truck again, and he puts the effort into keeping hold before he can consciously decide. The soldiers are talking, but the words sound like garbled noise, the air around him wavering and muting everything except the ragged drag of Steve's breathing. He looks down at the place where they're joined as he's pushed into a seat and realizes he's holding Steve's arm out at an awkward angle, lets go only long enough to take Steve's hand instead, and doesn't comment on the brief look of panic that bubbles over Steve's broken face when they lose contact. 

Lucas is there, rounded up into the truck along with Erica, and Dustin can barely meet his eyes, doesn't want to see the teasing that might be there for his white knuckled grip on Steve's hand, or the look on Steve's face that says it's necessary in the moment. But when he does finally look up for real, all he sees is tired relief, and a gentle sense of camaraderie as Lucas puts an arm over Erica's shoulders, pulling her tight into his side, all traces of rivalry obliterated for the moment. Dustin tries to smile, tries to indicate, in some way or another, that he never would've let anything happen to her, that he knows how important she is to Lucas, despite the constant bickering between the two of them. Lucas only nods, and Dustin is glad there are no words. He isn't sure he'd be able to process them now anyways. 

Robin settles on Steve's other side, and Dustin feels profound relief that she's alright as well, because if she were hurt, Steve would be devastated, and Dustin isn't entirely sure what he'd be willing to do to right the wrong. Not after this night. Not after the lines he's already crossed to keep Steve safe. Her breathless torrent of random, anxious speech is a comforting wall between him and the chance to fully acknowledge the thought.

Somehow, they end up at Dustin's house, two soldiers brusquely escorting him and Steve to the door, knocking loudly enough that it will wake his mom. Dustin feels a brief surge of panic before remembering that they've already made two stops, that these men have already told lies to two other sets of parents, and that when they'd been seeking addresses, Dustin had somehow summoned the presence of mind to insist that he and Steve were going the same place in the moment it had taken Steve to start remembering his own address. The look of relief, and the exhausted droop of Steve's swollen eyes had been enough for Dustin to know it had been the right move. He'd already made the mistake of letting Steve go home broken and alone once in the past, and he has no plans for a repeat performance any time in the future. Especially not when things are so tense between Steve and his parents, and he's likely to face more blame than anything else when he does finally make it home.

His mom is in a tizzy, and Dustin isn't quite sure how much time passes before she goes back to bed, only knows that Steve is leaning heavily on him by the time they're left alone, and the tremor of his muscles is so pronounced, Dustin can feel it leaching into his own body as he lowers him into bed. For a moment, Steve puts up a fight, arms like limp spaghetti, reaching up to protest his placement, his voice cracked and ragged when he says, "I'm not taking your bed, Henderson." 

Dustin could almost laugh, if only Steve's face weren't so destroyed, his grip like a dying child's where he's managed to grab Dustin's shirt. Instead he sighs, quiet enough that it’s more of a sensation than a sound. "Yes you are," he replies, conjuring up the memory of his authoritative self from earlier that night. Only this time Steve isn't drugged up and happy high. This time he's in so much pain he can barely stay upright, the adrenaline and drugs having worn off ages ago, leaving him to wade through a swamp of exhaustion and agony so thick and murky, it's plain to see he's close to drowning just from the effort of being alive. "You're way worse off than me," he adds, trying to sound reasonable, but mostly coming off desperate in his own ears. 

Steve looks up at him, trying his best to be stubborn, even as it’s clear he only wants to rest. 

"We can share," Dustin says after an interminable moment of quiet. "I'm not letting you sleep on the floor in this condition, and you know it."

Steve sags like he's been punctured and all the air is rushing out of him, and after another long moment, he lets go and says, "Alright," already tipping back, trusting Dustin to maneuver him into a comfortable landing. He looks tired, and broken, and spent in a way Dustin thinks no teenager is ever supposed to look. Then he thinks no adult should have to look that way either, given what it takes to get there, but it's somehow worse on someone young. Or maybe just worse on Steve. He's looking up at Dustin, left eye swollen shut, the virulent, sickening swelling pulling at that entire side of Steve's face until Dustin feels a strong urge to wince just looking at him. His right eye is drooping closed as well, but Dustin thinks that's probably the exhaustion, thinks Steve would be asleep already if he weren't looking so expectantly at Dustin, waiting for him to follow through on the bargain.

Dustin sighs, and it feels like all the weariness of the world traveling through his body, like he's Atlas and it's his job to keep Steve's world afloat when Steve is too stubborn and self sacrificing to do it for himself. But still, there's an aching sense of fondness simmering under all of that, and Dustin knows that he'd be happy to bear this weight for the rest of his life, if it meant they could survive and thrive together. 

"Okay," he says, finally, placating and indulgent. 

It's a tight fit with both of them in the bed, Steve so sore, he's not really capable of maneuvering to make it more comfortable. Dustin doesn't mind, though, if it means he can feel Steve warm and breathing next to him, can reach out a hand and rest it over the place where Steve's heart is beating heavy and slow under his sternum. Steve mumbles something totally unintelligible and Dustin can't help but smile, curling a little more into his side and trying to keep his head as far off the pillow as possible, because Steve certainly needs the soft support more than he does. His nose ends up pressed into Steve's shoulder, and he chooses to leave his hand on Steve's chest, telling himself it’s because there’s nowhere else to put it, and not because it feels good to have it there. 

"Go to sleep, Steve," he says, and it comes out quiet and soft, like his mom's voice used to sound when Dustin wanted one more story, but was too tired to even mumble the request.

Steve makes another quiet noise, and within what must only be a couple of minutes, he's gone still, his breathing slow and even, head lolled off to the side, leaving Dustin looking at the stretch of his neck, the hair curled tight over his nape, sticking where he'd been sweating, a collection of grime obvious from this close. They'd been too tired, and Steve too unstable for showering tonight, but Dustin doesn't mind the dirt in his bed. The sheets can be washed, and Steve deserves to rest after going for so long. After everything he'd had done to him and the way he'd still come through to save everyone's lives _again _.

Dustin is tired, too, exhausted and sore from the exertion of the day, but he doesn't think sleep will come for a while. He's too caught up in the feel of Steve's breath, the obvious thumping jut of his pulse, visible where his neck as gone taut. He looks at it for a long time, and wonders if he's imagining his own heart slowing to match the steady, visible punch of it under Steve's skin. He feels the cadence of his thoughts falling to match the beat as well, the words floating through his head, dropping like stones into a puddle each time he feels another reassuring thump, each time he sees the skin move, barely noticeable in the dim light of the moon. 

_I'm glad you're okay, _he thinks, words matching the cadence, forming in his mind as though he had said them aloud, stones of clarity into the murky water of other vagaries. 

_I would have lost it if you died _, he says to the walls of his skull, swallowing hard around the desire to say it out loud. He doesn't want to wake Steve, and he doesn't think he could handle the mortification of Steve understanding exactly how much Dustin really cares about him.

_I wish you would stop saving everyone. _He frowns, presses his mouth against Steve's shoulder and clenches his teeth so hard he thinks they might crack. There is a lancing pain in his jaw, and he thinks he feels his lower lip tear where he's grinding his braces against it. He backs off, slides his tongue carefully over the ragged flesh and tastes metal, but doesn't feel any real blood oozing out.

_I killed for you _, he thinks, rolling the words around in his head as if he just wants to get used to the feeling of them. _I killed for you, and you still went off to try to die for everyone else. _

He curls his fingers into Steve's tshirt, clenching his hand into a fist, holding himself stiff like a corpse in an effort to keep from digging his knuckles into Steve's sternum. He wants to wake him, to force him to acknowledge what Dustin has said, despite the words being uttered silently, kept behind the bars of his teeth, jailed forever in his chest, crowding up around his heart until it feels like he might die from the pressure of them. He killed someone today, and as much as he’s sure there should be guilt, remorse, devastation, grief warring inside of him, he can’t find a shred of them, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself. He thinks of life slipping through his fingers, staining him forever as someone willing to take the untakable thing, and all he feels is _proud _. Because Steve is _here _, in his bed, alive and breathing, heartbeat so strong Dustin can see it moving under his skin, and Dustin is the one who made it happen. 

He wonders if that makes him a monster, to be proud of his kill. To know, absolutely, that he would do it again if given the chance, not only to repeat the past, but also to kill anew for this man in the future. He wants to wake Steve, to force his gaze against Steve's own, to press his hands into Steve's shoulders until the mattress threatens to cave under the grand pressure of his convictions, and to demand an answer. He wonders what Steve would say, if he even realizes himself what Dustin has done. He wonders if Steve would ever forgive him. 

He peels his fingers out of Steve's shirt, uncurling them with determined, mechanical force as he lifts his arm away and turns quietly over, settling with his back pressed close to Steve's side, the warmth of his arm a brand along Dustin's spine.

Steve needs to rest, and Dustin isn't going to bother him with these petty things.

He stares at the opposite wall, shadows dancing lazily enough to lull him into a daze, letting his thoughts settle again into a gentle rhythm. Steve is alive, and safe, and _here, _and Dustin thinks that is all he can ever ask for from the world. He thinks there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to change the world’s mind, in the event of it denying him, and the taste of his surety is like battery acid under his tongue. He presses his smile into the sheets and does his best not to laugh. Steve needs his rest, and Dustin is going to make sure he gets what he needs. 

_Always._

**Author's Note:**

> ec·dy·sis  
/ˈekdəsəs/  
noun [ZOOLOGY]  
the process of shedding the old skin (in reptiles) or casting off the outer cuticle (in insects and other arthropods).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Ecdysis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466785) by [TurtleNovas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleNovas/pseuds/TurtleNovas)


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